Across a field of dew
and morning shadows,
I pick blueberries, stay
among the bushes
plopping the small spheres
with tiny collars into a bucket—
a sound to love.
Back at the house,
I unwedge wet shoes,
form the flour, salt, sugar,
oil, water, and a bit of yeast
into a ball to knead and roll,
the way my hands move against
your back, your body—
the rustic tart of me.
